Home is the Place Where . . .

When you go there, they have to take you in.  Robert Frost

This month, I had occasion to take Robert Frost at his word. I was about to be homeless, and I spent a few weeks feeling out the possibilities of housing for my husband and me with several of my children. All of them were gracious enough to be willing to shelter us—exceptionally generous offers considering we are both old and cranky. Son #4 lost the draw. His house is close, has a spare bedroom, and 25 years ago he and his wife had cheerfully taken us in for a few months when our home was originally built.

We’re not the only ones who have taken advantage of Son #4. He and his wife had also housed her sister and two children for upwards of 10 years, his youngest brother and family (including newborn twins) for at least a year, one of her brothers for close to 2 years, and various other family members on both sides whenever any of them were too poor to afford a VRBO and were visiting Utah. (Plus, the truth is Son #4 and his wife are just good people. I don’t think it would have occurred to them to turn anyone away.)

Why was I threatened with being homeless? Several years ago, I sold my house to Daughter #1 who is single, makes much money than I ever did, and needed a tax deduction. The sale meant that we lived with her instead of her living with us. (My husband and I won that little transaction because we are old, and we were relieved that our daughter with the problem-solving superpower was willing to take over.) Besides, she has taste, and she has been setting aside money to pay for the remodeling which is now in progress on the main floor of her home. Daughter #1 is a savvy organizer and was well aware that no work would ever be completed while her father was living in the house and able to a) daily interrogate every workman about his/her qualifications, and b) insist on redesigning every plan for the job ahead. Hence, we are sheltering nearby with Son #4 while the remodel goes on.

Oddly enough, this whole process of “what is home” was the subject of discussion at a bi-annual luncheon date with my college freshman roommates. (Yep, we are still friends after almost 60 years!)  One of our group had been very recently widowed and has been invited to live with her two daughters–one divorced and the other separated—who share a home in Sacramento, California. While we were together to bid her farewell, we circled around the idea of what “home” actually means. The other two members of our group are also widowed—one has an adult son living in her basement and the other has two adult daughters with serious health disabilities living with her. My temporary move to my son’s house meant that not a single one of us is currently living in what we had imagined home would be like for us when we were young.

Then, this weekend I attended the funeral of a friend in my neighborhood who passed away. At the pulpit, three of her children talked about their mother’s last moments when she told them she was ready to go “home” and be reunited with her parents and the son she had lost when he was very young. I wondered: is that what home really means?

Yesterday I happened to drop by my house to pick up another Sunday outfit. I’ve been alternating the two church outfits I brought to my son’s house for the last 6 or 7 weeks, and the truth is, I just got bored. I went in through the garage door, and in the kitchen I found Son #4 and Daughter #1 hanging long strips of clear plastic with blue painter’s tape to protect the newly installed cabinetry while they scrubbed and the painted the ceiling. Daughter #1 could have afforded to hire a painting company, but she talked Son #4 into doing the job because long ago he worked as a professional painter to help put himself through school, and he’s meticulous about the details. (I have faith he’ll never let her forget that she owes him!)

When the builder tore the kitchen out, Daughter #1 moved the refrigerator/freezer combo into the living room, set up two long tables to hold a microwave, an air fryer, and all the paper products she has needed to use the room as a “camp” kitchen for the last six weeks now. Son #5 was standing next to the microwave scolding two of his kids (ages 6 and 8) for spilling popcorn all over the carpet which meant he had to stop the painting prep to help them clean up.

Down the hall in the main bathroom, Daughter #2 and her husband were standing in Daughter #1’s brand-new bathtub spreading plastic and painter’s tape on the ceiling so they could put a basecoat on the walls in there. Next door, my bedroom was filled with boxes of bathroom stuff, and I could see signs that a base coat had already been started where my toilet used to be.

There didn’t appear to be a single space on the main floor that wasn’t in some stage of transformation. Chaos was the reigning décor philosophy, but I wasn’t in the least put off by the mess. I loved the people there. Everyone. Now that I think about it, we are blessed indeed if love is our definition of home.